Which

We are both of us sad at heart,
But I wonder who can say
Which has the harder part,
Or the bitterer grief to-day.

You grieve for a love that was lost
Before it had reached its prime;
I sit here and count the cost
Of a love that has lived its time.

Your blossom was plucked in its May,
In its dawning beauty and pride;
Mine lived till the August day,
And reached fruition and died.

You pressed its leaves in a book,
And you weep sweet tears o'er them.
Dry eyed I sit and look
On a withered and broken stem.

And now that all is told,
Which is the sadder, pray,
To give up your dream with its gold,
Or to see it fade into grey?